Promise Me: A heartbreaking and unputdownable page-turner

by Jade Beer

  It’s just ten weeks now until Betsy will marry her fiancé, Jacob, in the beautiful nineteenth-century church that sits opposite Helen’s other boutique in the village of Little Bloombury in the Cotswolds. But progress on the wedding planning front has been painfully slow. Helen is keen not to harass her daughter about the now urgent decision-making she needs to tackle, but she’s struggling to understand her reluctance.

  When Betsy arrived at her cottage to break the engagement news more than a year ago, she couldn’t have been happier. It was all hugs, happy tears and dress predictions before they belted downstairs to Helen’s boutique below the apartment and started loading Betsy up in veils and tiaras. Now, rather tired of waiting for any sort of update since then or even a steer on the colour palette for Betsy’s big day, Helen has ploughed on, buying her own outfit weeks ago. It’s a carefully chosen, works-with-anything pale blue and silver jacquard dress by Bruce Oldfield. The pretty floral print, fitted bodice with its fuller skirt and distinctive sailor collar, looks just grand enough. As she stepped out of the fitting room in Peter Jones on Sloane Square that day, she thought she saw a flicker of pride in Nick’s eyes as he said it suited her perfectly.

  He’s been the most wonderful friend to Helen over the months it has taken to get her new London bridal boutique open for business. His firm of architects pitched for the job of transforming the site into the elegant space it is today and under Helen’s confident direction, he’s been a much-needed sounding board ever since. It was Nick’s suggestion to push the ceiling a little higher, reducing Helen’s storage space upstairs but giving a wonderfully airy ambience to the boutique, where it really matters. When the builder told Helen she couldn’t hope to save the original parquet flooring, Nick armed her with the facts to make sure she could. And after the neighbouring Italian coffee shop complained that all the building works were adversely affecting their passing trade, he personally negotiated new working hours for the builders that meant no white vans taking up all the parking spaces at peak times.

  But the real glory belongs to Helen. Her first boutique opening in the Cotswolds, when life felt so fragile, was done tentatively, with little confidence but plenty of passion. This time it’s different. Spurred on by the growing demand for her expertise, endless calls from London brides who want to see her, but don’t have time to travel into the countryside, Helen took the leap to the capital. And she did so with all the ambition and drive needed to guarantee success. The financial risk means little, such is her soaring self-assurance now. Safeguarding her professional reputation is everything and on that point, she surely cannot fail.

  Helen was the one who suggested lunch today as a thank you for all Nick’s help. Then, before she had a chance to book anything, Nick left a message on the boutique voicemail with the restaurant name and the time of their reservation. Just one more thing he’s prevented her from worrying about.

  As she’s sending the final email to confirm the last of tomorrow’s brides, Helen is thinking back to the first time she and Nick met; how he came alone when he could so easily have sent someone more junior, as most of the other firms did. How, when he walked into the hotel lobby where they had arranged to meet, she was momentarily intimidated by him; his six-foot frame, the shock of well-styled, glossy grey hair, the perfect teeth. But within two minutes of him sitting opposite her and extending a warm hand to shake, his gentlemanly good manners put her entirely at ease. They’ve spoken almost every working day since then.

  Helen tries one more time to connect with Betsy’s mobile, but as it clicks to voicemail for the fifth time this week, she gives up. Is her daughter deliberately avoiding her? Surely not. No time to worry about it now, she doesn’t want to be late for Nick. It’s a cold but bright day and Helen is going to walk towards Oxford Street and into Mayfair to Scott’s restaurant. But as she steps out of the boutique and turns to lock the door, something roots her to the spot, halting her own breath inside of her. A man in smart chinos and a winter trench, clearly in a hurry, swerves around her and as their bodies briefly brush together, she’s unable to move for a moment because there it is. That smell. One she hasn’t enjoyed on a man for nearly five years. Her accidental assailant is mumbling an apology and checking Helen is OK, but her mind is somewhere else entirely.

  It’s the middle of summer and she and Phillip are lying down, feeling the fresh, green grass prickle the backs of their knees as they squint up into the sun, its intense heat stinging their cheeks. His arm is draped across the front of her softened belly and he’s whispering how she has made him the happiest man alive, while a gurgling baby Betsy lies between them. The smell of him, that unmistakable soft woody musk that she loved, mingles with the comforting freshness of his own skin. She remembers it on Betsy’s hair that day too, after he’d picked her up and cuddled her. It’s the smell that started every day they shared together, and told her he was home from work. Its deep blue glass bottle was the last thing she always bought to finish off his Christmas stocking.

  As the tears are streaming down Helen’s face through short, sharp breaths, she is struggling to force the key back into the lock of The White Gallery entrance. Once inside, she drops her bag to the floor and collapses onto one of the blush-pink chairs. She pulls out her phone and with unsteady fingers, sends the briefest text to Nick, warning him she’ll be a little late. Then she’s digging through her bag for the wet wipes, still shocked by the force of what just happened, feeling the adrenaline start to slowly ease back, no longer feeding her panic. Helen stands in front of the boutique mirror, ready to reapply her make-up, and she sees before her the strained, suddenly unsure face of a woman she thought she’d said goodbye to months ago.

  * * *

  The smart box hedging that fronts the windows of Scott’s is perfectly neat. Just like the doorman who pulls the heavy glass door open for her and the sharply pressed host who takes her coat and bag into the cloakroom before leading her through to their table. Nick is waiting for her and stands as he sees her approaching. Gosh, he’s impossible not to notice, thinks Helen, not for the first time. There’s no denying he’s in incredible shape for a man in his early sixties. His skin is more radiant than most of the stressed-out twenty-somethings she spends her days advising and there is not the faintest hint of a paunch under the black cashmere sweater he’s wearing today.

  ‘Wow, what are we celebrating?’ Helen notices the two glasses of chilled champagne already on the table, as she reaches up to place the briefest kiss either side of his face.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something.’ He’s smiling through the words as he helps Helen into one of the green leather dining chairs. ‘And if nothing else, then let’s at least drink to the past six months, the opening of your second White Gallery and to what I’m sure is going to be the most successful year ahead for you, Helen.’

  ‘Cheers to that! And to you, Nick, for all your wonderful support. I really couldn’t have done it without you. Honestly, you’ve been incredible.’

  They clink glasses, Nick letting his eyes linger on Helen’s in a way that makes her gulp back a little more fizz than she intended. The little alcohol spike is needed. Her emotions are back under control but the incident at the boutique has unnerved her. She would hate to unravel like that again in front of Nick. And somewhere as refined as Scott’s.

  Just being in here feels exciting. There isn’t a spare seat at the marble-topped seafood bar in the centre of the restaurant, where a circle of well-heeled men and women are working their way through a mountain of iced oysters. Everywhere Helen looks, people are having a tremendous time: corporate colleagues, tucking into the lobster thermidor and not caring how much it costs; older ladies, with perfectly set hair and overly rouged lips, slowly nibbling on the beluga, more interested in the gossip than the food. And diners like herself and Nick, rewarding themselves, celebrating something special.

  ‘I’m so pleased you could join me today, Helen. You deserve a treat after all the hard work.’ Nick’s hand
rests briefly on top of Helen’s and, surprisingly, she is in no hurry to wriggle it free.

  ‘It was supposed to be my treat, Nick.’ The last thing she wants is for him to think she has conveniently forgotten her promise to buy him lunch.

  ‘I know, I know, and please forgive me but you are the client and I like to consider myself extremely lucky to be at your disposal, so there we are. I hope you can live with that? Now, please tell me about Betsy, have you managed to persuade her into action with the wedding plans?’

  Plate after plate of langoustine, simple smoked salmon with muslin-wrapped lemons and potted shrimps come and go, as Helen fills Nick in on the increasingly distracted Betsy. He listens intently, never attempting to change the subject, just letting her get it all off her chest while he keeps the champagne coming. Then a beautiful crystal highball glass of sloe gin jelly, that Helen doesn’t remember ordering, is placed in front of her. She’s lost all sense of time, failing to notice that most of the other diners, well-oiled from the mix of fine wine and caviar, have retreated to the other delights of Mayfair – or returned to their offices, clients happily sloshed and with their lunch deals all tied up.

  She is aware that Nick is silently smiling at her.

  ‘What? What have I said that is amusing you so much, Nick?’ She’s giggling but also vaguely aware that the fizz has loosened her so much she may not be making as much sense as she thinks.

  ‘You’re just so wonderful, I love spending time with you. My greatest worry, Helen, is that now the boutique is up and running, you may not need me any more.’ His mood has shifted to being more earnest, not that Helen has noticed.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry! Give it another month and you will be well and truly sick of my calls about cracking plasterwork and whether I should extend the boutique to give me another fitting room.’ She’s spooning the last of the jelly into her mouth and chuckling at her own imagined neediness.

  ‘No, I won’t. I won’t ever get bored of hearing from you. I can’t imagine anything worse than not hearing from you.’ His eyes are on her, waiting for Helen to read the change in his tone. Gone is the light-hearted charm. He takes a huge intake of breath and waits, willing her to understand the point he’s making.

  ‘Oh. Well, er, that’s very kind of you.’ She’s fiddling with the napkin in her lap, not at all sure how to handle such a direct compliment.

  ‘I’m not trying to be kind, Helen. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t want to be apart from you.’ He’s so intense, not in the slightest bit embarrassed about sharing his feelings so honestly, so openly.

  Helen looks at him, sees all over his face how much thought he has given to this. How he might have imagined this conversation, planned it, even.

  ‘I want to see you every day, not just be someone you call when you need a recommendation for a good plumber. I love you, Helen, I have done for months. And I don’t want to hide it any more. You’re everything to me.’

  All she can think is, how has this happened? How could I possibly not have seen this coming? I was just being me and now…

  ‘I… I… thought we were just friends, I had no idea you felt this way.’ Her mind is racing back over all their calls, all the time they’ve spent together and how much of it was strictly necessary. How much did he instigate? How much did she suggest? There have been moments of real tenderness between them – a slightly lingering kiss on the cheek at the end of one lunch, a brief touching of hands as he steered her across a busy road and one surprisingly frank dinner where he confided that his biggest regret in life was never marrying – but nothing in Helen’s mind that strayed beyond good friends who care for each other.

  And then the words she thought she would never hear again fall out of Nick’s mouth.

  ‘Marry me, Helen. I love you.’

  She recognises the little red box immediately. Cartier. It sits on the white tablecloth between them, like a panic button no one wants to touch, having left Nick’s fingers but not yet been embraced by hers. It’s impossible to ignore.

  ‘Open it, please.’ It’s the first time she’s seen Nick anything close to nervous. His breath has deepened and he looks slightly pained, like it’s dawning on him far too late that this might not go the way he intended it to. It’s making Helen panic, knowing she won’t be able to spare him the embarrassment and awkwardness that’s coming. Not because she doesn’t hugely respect the man sat in front of her, a man who makes her feel special every single time she’s in his company, someone she looks forward to seeing more than just about anyone else she knows. She should be elated, she knows that, but… a marriage proposal?

  ‘Oh, Nick. I wasn’t expecting this at all, I’m not sure I can…’ Unlike Nick, who seems oblivious to anyone else in the room, Helen sees they are starting to attract the attention of one or two waiters who are hovering nearby, no doubt waiting for the instruction to unleash more champagne.

  But he can see she has no intention of taking the luxe little box, so he reaches forward and opens it for her, revealing the most beautiful diamond ring Helen has ever seen. A central pear-shaped diamond, surrounded by a spray of smaller ones. It’s large, quite breathtakingly so, and enough to force Helen to her feet.

  ‘Helen, please.’ Nick’s standing too now, searching for a hand that doesn’t want to be found. ‘I know this is a surprise and I hope I haven’t upset you. I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around you now, to kiss you. Please, will you at least give my question some thought?’

  Helen can feel the tears choking up through her and has no choice but to mutter a rushed I’m sorry, before she is skitting back across the dining room towards the cloakroom.

  A quick glance over her shoulder tells her Nick is going to let her go. She sees him close the lid of the ring box and place it back in his inside jacket pocket before she is out onto Mount Street, into the first black cab she sees, and disappearing away from him.

  5

  Jenny

  Ten minutes until my shift starts and the staffroom is its usual chaotic mess. The central coffee table is strewn with all the hallmarks of an intensely busy nightshift. Half-eaten sandwiches – some with only a single bite mark out of them – have been left to get limp and warm next to a tower of Diet Coke cans and Tupperware boxes of homemade leftovers that were started but never finished. It’s the biscuits and sweets that have been demolished, the things you can grab on the run when the chance of an actual break in your twelve-hour shift is pure fantasy.

  No one looks up as I enter the room, already too caught up in the rushed chat before the shift starts. It might only be 7.15 a.m., when the rest of the population is just starting to stir in their beds, but here the banter is already raucous, unedited and consuming. People often seem to think there is something saintly about being a midwife. They’d change their minds soon enough if they spent ten minutes in here. Maybe pulling on the burgundy coloured scrubs makes you a little anonymous to the nine other women sharing your shift and therefore free to say what you wouldn’t otherwise? Perhaps it’s just pure release from the stress of what we’re all about to go through together. Surely you can only rummage around between the legs of total strangers so many times before your ability to judge what’s appropriate and what’s not becomes clouded and irrelevant forever. Whatever it is, the air is already blue with talk of anal bleaching, married sex – or lack of it – and the fullness of bush we should all be aiming for.

  ‘I prefer the full winter coat, myself, thick and fierce when it’s that cold outside. Not a pair of knickers on earth that could hope to contain it, and my Keith is quite happy with that, thank you very much!’ Lucy is one of the most experienced midwives in the unit, with seven years’ service at Queen Mary’s, three of her own grown-up children and an ineffectual husband who unwittingly provides most of the entertainment in this staffroom. But right now, he’s getting a brief reprieve.

  ‘Really? A full thigh invasion?’ Jean is our head of midwifery. An ordinarily quite refined woman in her early
fifties, something of the librarian about her, she’s generally unshockable, unless we’re talking about pubic hair. She has a limitless supply of gumption and experience, a proper roll-up-your-sleeves type. I’ve seen her get results from the most tired women, who truly believed they couldn’t go on; motivate useless fathers-to-be with her ‘no spectators in here!’ approach to childbirth and keep a room free from panic when everything and everyone else around her was starting to unravel. She garners huge respect from the medical team here – and from me. I’ve always admired her, although I’m not sure she notices me much.

  The next ten minutes, between last hurried bites of buttered toast and gulps of too-hot tea, is devoted to a frank discussion about what a woman’s approach to personal grooming says about her – one chat I’m happy not to be asked for my input on. Full pelt? You’re strong, womanly and capable, apparently. Landing strip? Too controlling. Mannequin bald? Angry with the world. Shaped or coloured—

  ‘Now, that I just don’t understand.’ Lucy is pulling her wiry dark hair back into a loose knot, removing her impractical hoop earrings and sunglasses – that always seem to perch on top of her head, regardless of the weather – all while simultaneously pushing her feet into the ugly black work shoes we all tolerate. ‘All that self-love and adulation. Really, who can be bothered?’

  I dump my bag on the side next to a microwave that’s full of soup spills, and the pile of magazines that no one will get a chance to flick through today. Then I check my phone one last time and make a mental note to call my sister, Lulu, this week. We haven’t spoken properly for weeks and I could do with one of our downloads – if she can fit me in between delegating her life out to the cleaner, nutritionist, personal trainer, dog walker… I’m sure I’m missing someone.